The Graveyard Watcher
by TheFrenchBookworm
Summary: Death does not take sides. It cares little about the conflicts of the world, or the fairness of Fate. Impartial and unnoticed, Death stands by the sidelines, silently collecting Its dues. But when odd occurrences start to unravel in the In-Between, threatening the very balance It always sought to maintain, who can Death turn to for aid?


**I loved DreamWorks's adaptation of The Guardians of Childhood. It hit me straight in the feel, cuz I'm a sucker for fairytales. But it got me thinking : what about all the **_**other**_** myths surrounding folklore – mainly the ones featuring Death? And a plot started to develop itself I my head. I'm already in the process of writing another fic, but I just **_**had**_** to get this out of my head. Cassie's story will always be my priority, however, so no worries **

**I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**Prologue:**

_I have no shadow_.

It was her first conscious thought, light and fleeting as a summer breeze upon her mind. _I have no shadow_. She clung to the thought as if it were the last piece of driftwood keeping her afloat in a sea of uncertainty. The words echoed in her head, bearing the sharp ring of truth. _I have no shadow, I have no shadow, I have no shadow._ Her eyes were closed tight, yet she _knew _with irrefutable certainty that when she opened them, the thought would be confirmed.

Somewhere in her hazy mind a small voice whispered that such a claim could not be possible. Shadows were seen, and eyes meant for seeing. If hers were shut, then how could she _know_ her shadow was gone? It was preposterous – laughable even – to suppose that one could see through closed lids.

Satisfied that the issue had resolved itself with little difficulty, she set it aside and moved on to more pressing matters. Her name, for instance. What was her name? She puzzled over the question for a handful of seconds, expecting the answer to bubble effortlessly to the surface of her mind. When nothing came, she frowned. That wasn't right. Everyone had a name.

If fact, she realized with growing agitation as the delved deeper, she couldn't recall _anything_ from her past. A sense of unease seeped into the pit of her stomach. Where did she live? How old was she? What color was her hair? (She wasn't sure how that last one could be of any consequence, but she felt that she _should_ know the answer). But, after racking her memory in search for clues, it turned out there were only three things she could establish for certain.

The first was that she was standing.

The second was that her eyes were closed.

And the third was that _she had no shadow_.

A sigh rippled through her body. The solution, she thought, was simple enough. If she could not establish _who_ she was, then perhaps she should concentrate on _where_ she was standing. And in order to take in her surroundings, she had to open her eyes. So she did.

At first, she was disappointed. There wasn't much to see – it was too dark for that. But after a while (and a fair amount of blinking) the shadows seemed to melt away as she grew accustomed to the gloom. That was when she noticed the grave.

It was a plain thing – just a slab of grey rock protruding from a mound of freshly stirred earth – but she immediately felt associated with it. How odd. She leant in closer to decipher the words carved onto the stone's surface, and discovered another thing about herself. She couldn't read.

Clouds shifted, a beam of moonlight descending from the sky. More graves were brought into focus, dispatched here and there upon the land. An ugly statue jutted up from the earth a few feet away, overshadowed by the hanging branches of a willow tree. A winding path snaked in and out of sight between the tombs, leading to a small, weather-beaten chapel.

She was in a graveyard.

Barely had the troubling conclusion entered her mind when a flicker of movement caught her attention. A man was standing by the statue, so still and quiet she had not noticed him at first glance. The shade of the willow tree swallowed him almost entirely, but the full moon cast enough light upon the scene for her to guess that he was tall. His pale eyes seemed to shine in the night, silently assessing her.

For a long while neither spoke.

She wondered whether she should voice her questions – perhaps _he_ knew why she was standing alone in a cemetery at night – but in truth, something about this man's presence scattered her nerves and made her skin crawl. She suddenly wished she was very far from here, which was a little odd considering that she had no memory of anywhere else _but_ here, and was therefore incapable of picturing another place to _be_. The thought baffled her. She blinked, eyes fluttering closed for a split second, and when they reopened she almost started out of her skin.

The man, so still a moment ago, was suddenly only a hair's breadth away. He now towered over her, alarmingly close, and she flinched as the moonlight revealed his features. Pale skin, hollow cheeks, long, white hair – the face of Death. But although his skeletal body repulsed her, it was the man's eyes that that were truly frightening. Ancient eyes that held a crippling wariness, a suffering she could not even _begin_ to comprehend. She wanted to run, to bolt, but his glassy eyes held her firmly in place. The man stirred, shifting his weight away from the long scythe in his bony hand.

He spoke in a thin, whispery voice. "Who are you?"

A question – and yet, not _really_ a question. The way he said it… the tone and cadence he used – Like he already knew the answer but was duty-bound to voice the inquiry, repeating a ritual as old as time. And suddenly, in a flash of insight, she realized that _she_ knew the answer too. Of course, she knew! Courage seeped back into her heart. She didn't question the information, knowing it to be true as surely as she had known about her lack of shadow.

The man was still watching, unfazed. If he had noticed her epiphany, he showed no sign of it.

She straightened, her newfound identity giving her the nerve to meet the man's empty eyes, and said, "Ankou." Only the slight quiver in her voice betrayed her jittering nerves.

The man nodded, relief flashing across his face before it settled once more into impassiveness. "Yes," he breathed, and slowly extended his arm, offering her the scythe.

She accepted his gift out of reflex, fingers curling around the aged wood without a second thought, but as soon as she had, Ankou knew that something of great significance had just taken place – something that could not be undone. The man sighed and his shoulders straightened, as if an immense weight had left him. He smiled, the action smoothing his face, making him look decades younger. His eyes turned towards the heavens, sliding over Ankou as if she were not even there.

"Yes," he murmured, "I remember."

And then he was gone.

Ankou blinked, staring at empty space. The man had just _vanished_ without a trace, leaving nothing behind save for the scythe in her hands. Panic sparked in her gut. What was she supposed to do? She had a name, yes, but nothing else, nothing at all. Was he coming back to explain her presence here – her purpose in this world? But even as the questions piled up in her mind, Ankou realized she was on her own, that the strange man was gone for good, never to return.

_But where?_ she wondered. _Where could he have gone_?

For the second time that night, the answer presented itself in her mind as easily as if she'd known it all along.

_On_. He'd simply gone_ on_.

Towards the east, the sky was lightening. Dawn was not far off. Ankou slowly turned, watching the graveyard intently. The sun peaked over the horizon, spilling new light over the land. Ankou glanced down, her gaze sliding over the plain cotton dress falling down to her ankles, and the wooden clogs concealing her feet.

She had no shadow.

Perhaps it should have worried her, but already, her attention was wavering. An ancient knowledge was awakening inside her, chasing away her doubt. _Where_ it came from, or _why_ it had chosen her, she would never know. But she found that she was no longer afraid.

Ankou tightened her hold on the scythe and turned away from her grave, walking towards the graveyard entrance with renewed purpose.

She had a job to do.

oooOOOooo

**I'm from Bretagne, and myths featuring the Ankou are pretty common here. They've always fascinated me ^^**

**Please leave a review!**

**Oh, btw, this will not be a romance fic. Just thought I should clear that up.**


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